 CHAPTER VIII. Then began a new era in the life of the girls itself, Plains Academy. They had work to do. A common interest possessed them. They had a leader, such and one as they had never known before. She was capable of originating and guiding. She not only knew how to talk, but how to do. Committee meetings became the fashion of the day. No time now for loitering over lessons. No weary yawning behind the covers of weary some textbooks. Promptly at four o'clock was to be a meeting of importance. It would be just horrid to be detained in the recitation room over an imperfectly prepared lesson, while the others hastened to Miss Benedict's room to be met with her questioning as to the where and why of the absent member. Mrs. Foster had never seen better work done than went on among her girls during the weeks that followed. There was need for committee meetings and for almost endless discussions of ways and means. The voluntary offerings were all in, and though each had done her best, all knew that the sum total was meager enough. Money must certainly be earned, but the grave question was, how? Oh, there are ways, declared Miss Benedict, with a confidence that of itself inspired courage. Of course there are a good many ways, and we must think them up. Earning money is never very easy business, and we must begin by understanding that as a matter of course there is work and disagreeable work of some sort in store for each one of us. The girls, each and all, declared themselves ready for work, but totally in the dark. They knew how to save money, the most of them provided they could get hold of any to save, but as for earning it, they really had never earned a cent in their lives. There had been no opportunity, so they declared. She will make opportunities, announced the brave young leader, to whom money had hitherto flowed in an unbroken stream. But her courage was contagious, as true courage often is, and the girls laughed and announced themselves as ready, even to make opportunities if somebody would show them how. Let me see, said Miss Benedict. Her head dropped a little to one side, her chin resting on her hand in the attitude that she used to assume, when Dora said she was planning a house and lot for some protégé. To begin with, there are things to be sold by agencies. Two or three girls gravely shook their heads. One shrugged her shoulders as an evidence of dismay, not to say disgust, and Ruth Jennings spoke. Book agents, we can't do it, Miss Benedict. There are not three people in South Plains who ever think of buying a book. One of the creatures canvassed the whole town last summer, was in every house within three miles, and she sold just four books. A good book it was, too, but the people who had money to spare didn't want it, and the people who wanted it hadn't the money. I was never more sorry for anybody in my life than I was for that poor girl who wore out a pair of shoes and a pair of gloves and spoiled her bonnet to say nothing of her temper, and she was voted the greatest nuisance we ever had in this village, and that is saying a great deal. Miss Benedict laughed merrily. Ruth's voluble tongue always amused her. I don't mean books, she explained. There are other things, for instance, hairpins. The sentence closed with a little laugh and seemed to be suggested by the dropping of one of the gleaming things at that moment from her hair, but there was that in her voice which made the girls think there was a real suggestion hidden in it, though they could not see how. Hairpins, repeated Ruth in puzzled tone. Yes, really and truly, not metaphorically. I bought some last night at the store in the village. The best, the clerk gravely assured me, that were to be had. Wretched things! I wore one for an hour, then threw it in the stove. It seemed to me that it pulled each hair of my head during that one hour. Look at the kind we ought to have, whereupon she drew the gleaming thing out again and passed it around for my newt scrutiny. Good steel they are, you see. That is the trademark. Each one is finished to a high degree of smoothness. One who has used a single paper of them could not be persuaded to contend herself with any other kind. Cheap they are, too. Actually cheaper than those instruments of torture I bought last night. I sent to my sister by the morning mail to send me a box forthwith. That suggested the business to me, I presume. There are worthless imitations, but the genuine sort can be bought by the quantity very cheaply indeed, and a respectable profit might be made on them until the people were supplied. It isn't as though we were at work in a city where women could supply themselves without any trouble. It is a work of genuine mercy, I think, to rescue the ladies from those prongs to which they have to submit. Turn hairpin, peddlers, said Mary Burton. There was a laugh on her face, but the slightest upward curve to her pretty lip. Mary felt above the suggestion. Her father was a farmer, decidedly well-to-do, and owned and lived in one of the prettiest places about South Plains. Yes, said the millionaire's daughter, who had lived all her life in a palatial home such as Mary Burton could not even imagine. Peddlers, if you like the name, why not? It is a good honest business, if one keeps good stock, and sells at honest prices. I like it very much better than selling cake and flowers and nuts and candy in the church at wicked prices in the name of benevolence. There was a general laugh over this hint. Both Plains had had its day at such work as this, and those girls knew just how wicked the prices were, and how questionable the ways which had been resorted to in order to secure customers. I'd as soon sell hairpins as anything else, affirmed Ruth Jennings. I would like some of them myself. We always get wretched ones down at the corner store. But Miss Benedict, do you believe much could be made just out of hairpins? But there are other things plenty of them. Little conveniences, you know, that people do not think of until they are brought to their doors, and that are so cheap it seems a pity not to buy them, if only for the sake of getting pleasantly rid of a nuisance. This with a merry glance at Ruth. For instance, there are some charming little calendar cards being gotten up for the holiday sales on purpose for the children. They are mounted on an easel and contain a Bible verse for every day in the year, with a bit of a quotation from some good author, in verse, you know, exquisite little selections just suited to children. On each Sabbath the card contains the golden text of the Sabbath school lesson. They are just as pretty as possible and retail for twenty cents. I don't believe there are many mothers who could resist the temptation of buying one for their children. But useful things viewed from a practical standpoint sell the best. I have always heard that the country was the place to get pies and custards and all such good things. It is, said one of the girls, with a confident knot of her head. This is the greatest place for pies you ever saw. I know people who have a pie of some sort for breakfast, dinner, and supper. No use in trying to start a bakery here. People all make their own and plenty of it. Miss Benedict looked her satisfaction. Then there are plenty of burned fingers, I am sure. Nettie, my dear, you said you helped your mother on Saturday, which I suppose is baking day. How many times have you blistered your poor little fingers trying to lift out a hot and heavy pie from the oven? More times than I should think of trying to count, and for that matter I have done a great deal worse than to burn my fingers. Only last Saturday I tipped a pumpkin pie upside down on the floor, mother's clean floor, it had just been mopped. The tin was hot, you see, and the cloth slipped somehow, so that my bare fingers came right on the hottest part, and I just squealed and dropped the whole thing. Oh, such a mess! Precisely, said Miss Benedict, looking unsympathetically pleased with the story, I have no doubt that we should find quite a noble army of martyrs among you in that very line or among your mothers. You girls would be more likely to squeal and drop it, as Nettie has said, but now I want to know what is to hinder us from being benefactors to our race and earning an honest penny in the bargain by sending for a box full of pie-lifters and offering one to every housekeeper in South Plains. They are cheap, and I don't believe many pie-bakers would refuse one. Pie-lifters? I never heard of such an institution. What in the world are they? Three questioning voices. Oh, just ingenious little pieces of iron, so contrived that they will open and shut like an old-fashioned pair of tongs, only much more gracefully. They adjust themselves to the size of the tin or plate and close firmly, so that even a novice can lift the hottest pumpkin pie that ever bubbled and set it with composure and complacency on the table at her leisure. I should think they would be splendid. This in varying phraseology was the general vote. Then I'll tell you of one of the greatest nuisances out. Look here! Did you ever see a more starched-up linen cuff than this is? The girls looked admiringly. No, they never did. It shone with a lovely polish the means of securing which was unknown to the most domestic of them. Well, explained Miss Benedict, it isn't linen at all. By the way, I am trying to economize in laundry work. It is nothing but paper, but with such a good linen finish that nobody ever discovers it, and they answer every purpose. I find they don't keep them at the corner store, and your young gentlemen friends would like them, I am sure. They can be had at the factory very reasonably indeed. I shouldn't wonder if we would better invest in some. But that is not what I started out to say. When you get a pair of cuffs nicely laundry'd so that they are stiff and shining, how do you enjoy struggling with them to get the cuff button in or to get it out, especially if you are in a hurry? This query produced much merriment among two of the girls, which the elder sister presently explained. You ought to ask that question of our brother Dick. He does have the most trying times with his cuff buttons. He wants his cuffs so stiff they can almost walk alone, and then he fusses and struggles to get the buttons in so as to not break the cuff. He is just at the age, Miss Benedict, to be very particular about such things, and sometimes he gets into such a rage. Last Sunday he split one of his buttons in half a dozen pieces tugging at it. I tried to help him, but I couldn't get the thing in. They are a dreadful nuisance. Ah, but look at this! A sudden dexterous movement, and the button was standing perpendicularly across the buttonhole, and could be slipped in or out with perfect ease. The girls looked and admired and exclaimed. They had never seen such a contrivance. But they are very expensive, are they not? This question came from the ever-practical Ruth. Miss Benedict readjusted her cuff with a sudden quivering of the lip as a rush of memories swept over her. Those heavy gold cuff buttons, with their rare and delicate designs, had been among her father's gifts less than a year ago. These are rather so, she said presently, struggling to keep her voice steady. But the device for opening and shutting is introduced into plain buttons, which can be had for twenty-five cents a set. And I think they are a great comfort, especially to young men. This was only a hint of the talk. The arrangement was continued at several meetings, and plans at last were perfected, and orders made out and sent to the city for a dozen or more useful articles. None of them bulky, all of them cheap. The arrangement was that each young lady should take her share of the articles, keep her individual account, and henceforth go armed. Hairpins and cuff buttons in her pocket, ready, as opportunity offered, to suggest to a friend the advisability of making a desirable purchase. If she went to a neighbor's of an errand, she was in duty bound to take a pie-lifter under her shawl and describe its merits. Did she meet a reasonably indulgent mother, out were to come the pretty calendar cards, and the agent thereof was to hold herself prepared to descant eloquently on their beauties. Thus threw the whole stock in trade. As for the nuisance part, of course it would be a good deal of a nuisance and a good deal of a cross, especially when they met with surly people who did not even know how to refuse politely. But as workers enlisted for the war, they were to be ready to bear such crosses, always endeavoring to carry on their work on strictly business principles. To descend to no urging or unladylike pressure, but simply to courteously offer their goods at honest prices. If after such effort they received replies that were hard to bear, they must just bear them for the sake of the cause. Thus decreed the heroic leader, adding, by way of emphasis, that all ways of earning money had their unpleasant side she supposed, and all workers had moments in which their work could only be looked upon in the light of a cross. Did those girls ever know what a cross it had been to her, Claire Benedict, to come to South Plains and teach them music? This part she thought. Such crosses were not to be brought out to be talked about. Hers was connected with such a heavy one that it would bear mentioning only to him who carried her sorrows. CHAPTER VIII. OUTSIDE THE CIRCLE. Why are not the enstead girls included among our workers? It was the music teacher who asked this question as she waited in the music room for recess to close and her work to begin. Around the stove gathered the usual group of girls talking eagerly. An absorbing topic had been opened before them, one with unending resources. Ruth Jennings had had unprecedented success the Saturday before, disposing of pie-lifters. She was detailing some of her curious experiences. Also she had received an order for a certain kind of egg-beater, the like of which had never been seen in South Plains. She had duly reported the mysteriously described thing to Miss Benedict, who had at once recognized it and sent her order out by the morning mail. Not for one, but two dozen. Why should not other families in South Plains beat eggs in comfort? It was strange that she had not thought of those nice little egg-beaters. This and a dozen other matters of interest were being repeated and discussed, the lady at the piano being constantly appealed to for information or to confirm some surprising statement. During a momentary lull in the talk, she asked her question. Ruth Jennings answered, Oh, the Anstead girls, why Miss Benedict, is it possible you have not discovered that they belong to a higher sphere? Dear me, they have nothing to do with South Plains except to tolerate it during a few months of the summer because the old homestead is here and they can't very well move it to the city. They live in that lovely place at the top of Curve Hill. You have been up there, haven't you? It is the only really lovely spot in South Plains. In summer their grounds are just elegant. Yes, Miss Benedict had been in that direction and every other. She rested herself body and soul by long, brisk, lonely walks. She had noticed the place and wondered over it and had meant to ask its history. So unlike every other spot in the withered village, great broad fields stretching into the distance, handsome iron fence with massive gate posts guarded by fierce-looking dogs in iron, a trellist arbor, the outline of a croquet ground, a hint of widespread ink, carefully kept lawns showing between patches of the snow, a summer house that in the season of vines and blossoms must be lovely, a circle that suggested an artificial pond centered with a fountain where she could imagine the water playing rainbows with the sunshine in the long summer days. And in short, there were all about this place very unmistakable tokens of the sort of refinement which is only to be secured by a full purse and an abundance of elegant leisure on the part of someone whose tastes are cultured to the highest degree. Shrouted in the snows of midwinter, with a shut-up look about the large old-fashioned roomy house, kept in a state of perfect repair, yet kept carefully for what it was, a country home, the place was marked and exceptional. It spoke a language that could be found nowhere else in the village or out of it for miles around. Miss Benedict had looked upon it with loving eyes. It spoke to her of the world from which she had come away, of the sort of life which had always heretofore been hers. It did not look elegant to her except by contrast with the surrounding shabbiness. She had been used to much greater elegance. It simply said home to her sad heart. And only the Saturday before she had wondered whose home it was and why she never sought people who seemed to match it, and when it would be opened again for residents and whether she should ever get a chance to visit that lovely greenhouse all aglow even now. It came to her as a surprise that it really was the home of two of her pupils. Do you mean that the Ansteads live there? She questioned. Where is the family and why are the girls here? Oh, the family are everywhere. They scatter in the winter like the birds. Go south, you know, or west, or wherever suits their royal fancy. They have no home but this because they cannot make up their minds where to settle down for one, so they board all over the world. Do business in the city, live in South Plains, and stay in Europe. That is about their history. And the girls remain here while their parents are away? Part of the time, yes, them. Mrs. Anstead was a schoolmate of Mrs. Foster, I have heard, and respects her very highly and would prefer having the girls with her to sending them anywhere else. Mr. Anstead is a merchant in the city. In the summer he comes out home every night, and some of them stay in town with him a great deal. It is only ten miles away, you know. If they did not charge so dreadfully on the new railroad, we might get a chance to look at its splendors once in a while ourselves. But the Ansteads don't care for high prices. Mr. Anstead is one of the directors, and I suppose they ride for nothing just because they could afford to pay the eighty cents a day as well as not. That seems to be the way things work. But the family attend this church, of course, while they are here. I should think the girls would be interested to join us. Oh, no, ma'am, indeed they don't. They haven't been inside the church six times in as many years. They go to town. Not to church. Yes, them they do. Every pleasant day their carriage rolls by our house about half past eight and makes me feel cross and envious all day. But do you really mean that they habitually go ten miles to church each Sabbath when there is one right at their doors that they might attend? What denomination are they? The very same as our own, the girl said, laughing over Miss Benedict's astonished face. And the gentle Nettie added her explanation. Well, but girls, you know they don't really go ten miles. There is an elegant church Miss Benedict just about seven or maybe almost eight miles from here. It was built by wealthy people who live out there in the suburbs, and it is said to be the prettiest church in town, and the Ansteads go to that. But eight miles every Sabbath and return must make a busy and wearying day of the Sabbath, I should think, when there is no occasion. How came they to fall into the habit of going so far? Why, they did not use to spend their summers here, only a few weeks during August. They had a house in town, and then Mrs. Anstead was sick, and the doctors said she could not live in the city, and they had a little delicate baby who they said would die unless they kept it in the country. So they sold their townhouse and came out here to stay until they decided what to do. And then the railroad was built, and Mr. Anstead found it easy enough to get back and forth to his business. And the baby began to grow strong, and they spent a great deal of money on the place, and grew to liking it, and they just stay on. They keep rooms in town and are there a great deal, but they really live in South Plains. And drive to church every Sabbath. Well, every Sabbath when it is pleasant, they are not very regular. When it is too warm to go, they lounge under the trees. And when it is too rainy, they lounge in their handsome house, I suppose. At any rate, they don't appear in our church. We don't see much more of them when they are at home than when they are in Europe only riding by. And do the girls like to be here at school while the family is away? Well, that is a new thing, you see. Mrs. Foster has only been here since September. Before that, they never looked at our school. But directly they heard she was coming. The Anstead girls came in and are to board here until the family come back from Florida. We never any of us spoke to Fanny and Ella Anstead in our lives until they appeared here in October. Then Mary Burton spoke. And we shall not get a chance to speak with their highnesses much longer. The Ansteads are coming home in two weeks. Lillian, that's the baby, has had a low fever. And the doctors have decided that she needs to come home and get braced up. And the house is being aired for their coming. Ella Anstead told me this morning. She says she and Fanny will only be here at recitations after next week or week after. She doesn't know just when the folks will get here. They are going to stop in New York. Girls, said the music teacher in her most resolute tone, let us get the Anstead girls into our circle and set them at work for the church. But this met with eager demers. The Ansteads held themselves aloof from South Plains. They never made calls among the people or invited them into their home or noticed them in any way. They had nothing to do with the poor little church. Never came to the prayer meetings nor to the socials, nor in any way indicated that they belonged to the same flesh and blood as the worshipers there. And South Plains held its head too high and thought too much of itself to run after them. The girls were well enough, Fanny and Ella, and they had been pleasant to them. But as for stooping to coax them to help, they did not feel that they could do it, even for Miss Benedict. I don't want you to stoop, declared Miss Benedict, nor to coax. I want you to give them a good hearty invitation to join us. Poor things! I am just as sorry for them as I can be. Eight miles away from their church and all church friends, no prayer meeting to attend, and no pastor to interest himself in all they do. I have wondered why those girls seemed so out in the cold. I begin to understand it. You think you have been cordial, but you have just edged out a little, made a tiny opening in your circle, and said in effect, Oh, you may come in if you will crawl in there. We will tolerate you while you are here, if you won't expect too much, nor ask us to invite you to our special doings of any sort. You are just outsiders, and we are not going to stoop to you and let you be one with us. The girls laughed a little, but Ruth Jennings demurred. Nobody had wanted them to stay outside. They had chosen to do so. They would not attend the church, though the trustees had invited Mr. Anstead, and they never showed in any way an interest in South Plains or its people. The Spenadict changed her tactics. Girls, wait, let me ask you, are Fanny and Ella Anstead Christians? Not that I ever heard of, Ruth said, and Mary Burton added that she knew they were not, that one day when they were talking about such things Ella asked the strangest questions, almost as though she were a heathen, and Fanny did not seem to know much better. Well, have you made them realize that you young people belong to Christ and that it is a pleasant way, and you would like to have them join it and work for his cause? Ruth, my dear, do they know that you desire to have them happy in Christ and that you pray for this every day? It isn't likely they do, Miss Spenadict, for it isn't true. I never thought about them twice in my life in that connection, and I know I never prayed for them. And are there any of you who can give a better record than that? She looked around upon the silenced group and waited in vain for an answer. At last she said gently, now girls, there are only two questions more that I want to ask you. One is, which is it that stands aloof and makes no effort to help others, you or the Anstead girls, if you know Christ and they do not? And the other is, will you all agree to invite them to join us and do it heartily? The peeling bell cut short an answer, if one had been intended. Miss Spenadict was glad she wanted no answer just then. She had planted her little seed and hoped that it would take root and grow. She has a way of taking things for granted, said one of the group which moved out of the music room, leaving ready to take her lesson. How does she know that any of us are Christians? There was a moment's silence, then Mary Burton asked, do you really suppose there is no difference between us and others? Can't we be told in any way? I'm sure I don't know how. There hasn't been a communion service since she came here and we don't any of us go to prayer meeting. They say she does. The other said, she sat in one corner of that dark old church the other night, the first woman there, and not many came afterward, said Mary Burton. I wonder what it means, anyway, to come out from among them and be separate. I came across that verse in my reading the other night, and I wondered then just what it meant. We girls are certainly not any more separate since we joined the church than we were before, so far as I know. And yet the verse some way made me think of Miss Benedict. She seems different from other Christians. I should like to know just what made the difference. She is gooder, said Ruth Jennings, laughing a little. That is just the whole of it, but I wish she hadn't started out on this idea about the Ansteads. They won't join us, and I don't want to feel myself humiliated by asking them. But Nettie, usually easy to be turned aside, held persistently to the thought which troubled her. I know she is gooder. That is what I say. But ought not we to be the same? Ought the boys and girls with whom we five spend so much time to feel that we just belong to their set and are in no sense different from them? We are all the church members there are among the young people, you know. When I told Miss Benedict that the other day, she looked astonished for a minute, and then she said, You dear girls, what a work you have to do. But I don't feel as though we were doing it, and I, for one, don't know how, but I wish I did. There was no answer to that. The little seed was taking root, though not in the way that the planter had planned. CHAPTER X Thereafter Miss Benedict thought much about the Ansteads. She herself could hardly have told why they interested her so much, though she attributed it to the fact that the surroundings of the old house spoke to her of home. The family returned and established themselves there, and the blinds were thrown open, and through the half-drawn shades, as she took her after-school walks, she could see glimpses of bright, beautiful life inside. She longed to get nearer, and saw no way to accomplish it. The Anstead girls had been invited to join the workers. Miss Benedict's influence reached as far as this, though that lady wished she had been sure that the invitation had sounded cordial and hardy. But they had hesitated and hesitated, and proposed to talk with Mama about it, and Mama was reported to have said that it was hardly worthwhile. They were such entire strangers to the church and the people that, of course, they could not be expected to have the interest in it which others had, and the girls had tossed their heads and said they knew it would be just so. They were sorry they had invited them, and they would not be caught that way again, not even for Miss Benedict. Meantime, Miss Benedict studied the Ansteads from a distance, and tried to understand the reasons for their utter isolation from the good people of the village. She cultivated the friendship of the two girls who were her pupils, and who, now that they had declined the invitation to join the others, were more shot off from them than before. Miss Benedict took care, however, not to refer to this episode. There were reasons why she did not desire to know the particulars, but she made herself as winning as she could to the girls, and wondered how and when she could reach their home. As is often the case, the way opened unexpectedly. It was a wintery evening, and she, having walked further than she had intended, was making the return trip with all speed, lest the darkness fast closing on the village should envelop her before she reached the academy. How foolish I was, she told herself, to go so far. I must have walked two miles, and it is beginning to snow. What would Mama think to see me on the dark street alone? In common with most city-bred ladies, accustomed to treading the brightly lighted city streets with indifference, she looked upon the darkness and silence of the country with a sort of terror, and was making swift strides, not pausing even to get the glimpse of home which shone out broadly across the snow from all the front windows of the house on Curve Hill. It looked very home-like, but her only home was that plain little upper room at the academy, and thither she must go with all speed. Underneath the freshly falling snow lay a treacherous block of ice, and as the hurrying feet touched it, they slipped from their owner's control, and she was lying a limp heap at the foot of Curve Hill. No use to try to rise and hasten on. A very slight effort in that direction told her that one ankle was useless. It was to be done. She looked up and down the street. Not a person was to be seen in either direction. Would it be of any use to call through this rising wind for assistance? How plainly she could see the forms flitting about that bright room! Yet they might as well be miles away, so far as her power to reach them was concerned. She made a second effort to rise, and fell back with a groan. It was best not to attempt that again, where she would faint, and certainly she had need of her senses now. If only one of those queer-looking wood-slays over which she had laughed only this afternoon would come along and pick her up, how grateful she would be! Somebody else was coming to pick her up. What have we here? said a brisk voice. Fallen humanity? Plenty of that to be found. What is the immediate cause? Then in a lower tone, I believe it is a woman. By this time he had reached her side, a young man prepared to make merry over the fallen fortunes of some child, so he had evidently at first supposed. I beg pardon, ma'am, he said, and even at that moment he waited to lift his hat. Did you fall? Are you injured? How can I best help you? Sir Benedict of old had one peculiarity which had often vexed her more nervous young sister. Under embarrassing or trying circumstances of any sort, where the average young woman would be likely to cry, she was nearly certain to laugh. It was just what she did at this moment. I think I have sprained my ankle, she said between her laughs. At least it will not allow me to move without growing faint, so I am keeping still. I thought I needed my senses just now. If you can think of any way of securing a wagon of some sort in which I can ride to the academy, it will help me materially. To the academy? Why, that is a mile away. You must take a shorter ride than that for the first one. You cannot be very heavy, I should say. Allow me. And before she understood what he was planning sufficiently to attempt a protest, he had stooped and unceremoniously picked her up, and was taking swift strides across the snow-covered lawn to the side piazza of the Anstead House. The gate leading to the carriage-drive was thrown open, so there had been no obstacle in his way. It was ridiculous to laugh under such circumstances, but this was just what Claire did, while her porter through open the door strode through the wide hall and dropped her among the cushions of a luxurious couch in one of the bright rooms. Here is a maimed lady, he said. Mama Alice, where are some of you? Oh, Louis, said a familiar voice. What's the matter? Did you run her over? Why, Fanny, it is Miss Benedict. Mama, Louis, call Mama quick. And then Claire really accomplished what she had so often threatened and fainted entirely away. It is only a sprain, she explained, directly her eyes were open again. I was very foolish to faint. A pleasant motherly face was bending over her with eyes like Ella and hair like Fanny. This must be the mother. Is it a sprain, do you think? She asked. Or only a sort of twist. Those things are sometimes very painful for a while. We have sent for a physician and shall soon know what to do for you. In the meantime, Fanny, my dear, her boot should be removed. Thus reminded, Fanny bent with eager fingers over the injured member. Did you fall, Miss Benedict? Wasn't it too bad? But since you were going to fall, I am glad you did it right by our gate. Mama, do you know, this is our music teacher. So I judge, daughter, we are sorry to make her acquaintance in this manner and glad to be of service. Bring another pillow, Ella. It was all gracefully and graciously said. Mrs. Anstead was not a woman who would have thought of seeking out and calling in a friendly way on her daughter's music teacher. But she was one who, when that music teacher appeared at her door in need of assistance, could bestow it heartily and delicately. She is not like Mama in the least, O, not in any particular. And yet I think she means to be a good woman so far as she sees the way to it out of the environments of her world. I wonder if there is any way in which I am to help her and if this is a beginning. This was the mental comment of the music teacher who was supposed to be absorbed in her own troubles. It all arranged itself speedily and naturally. The doctor came and pronounced the ankle badly sprained, advised entire quiet for a few days, heartily seconded Mrs. Anstead's suggestion that the prisoner should remain with them. And when Claire faintly demurred, that lady said decidedly, Why, of course, it will be the proper thing to do. It is not as though you were at home. The academy is at best a poor place in which to secure quiet, and there is no occasion for submitting to the discomfort of getting there. This is decidedly the place for you. Since it was the treacherous ice on our walk that brought you to grief, you must allow us to make what amends we can. I will send word to Mrs. Foster at once. Claire yielded gracefully. In truth she was rather anxious to do so. She was interested in the Anstead's. She had been wondering how she could make their acquaintance and interest them in matters that she believed required their aid. She had been doing more than wondering. Only this morning, thinking of the subject, as she locked her door for prayer, she had carried it to Christ and asked him for opportunities if indeed he meant that she was to work in this direction. What a signal opportunity! Certainly not of her planning. She must take care how she closed the door on it. Behold her then, an hour later, domiciled in one of the guest chambers of the beautiful old home, where every touch of taste and refinement, yes and luxury, soothed her heart like a breath from home. This was the home to which she had her to for been accustomed. More elegant her own had been, it is true. But the same disregard to money that had characterized the belongings of her father's house were apparent here. Everything spoke of a full purse and a cultured taste. It was very foolish, but Claire could not help a little sigh of satisfaction over the delicacy of the curtains and the fineness of the bed draperies. Had she really missed things of that sort so much? She asked herself. Yes, she had, her truthful heart responded. She liked all soft and fair and pretty things, but after all the main reason for their soothing influence now was that they said home and mother to her. Late aside thus suddenly from her regular line of work, the morning found her dressed and lying on the fond-colored couch in her pretty room considering what there was to do that day. She had already feasted royally. The delicate breakfast that had been sent up to her was served on rare old china and accompanied with the finest of damask and the brightest of solid silver. They commented on her in the dining-room below after this fashion. Poor creature! I suppose she thinks she has dropped into fairy land. She looks as though she could appreciate the little refinements of life. I quite enjoyed sending her that quaint old cream cup. I fancy she has taste enough to admire it. This from the mother, then Alice. Mama are not such things a sort of cruel kindness. Think of going back to the thick dishes and cheap knives of the academy after being served in state for a few days. I know, dear, but we cannot help that part. She will probably not remain long enough to get spoiled. She is really quite interesting. I wonder if she has seen better days. How would Claire have answered this question? Fairy land? Yes, it was something of that to her, but she was like a fairy who had been astray in a new world and had reached home again. The silver might be choice, but she had seen as choice, and the china might have been handed down for generations, yet the style of it and the feel of it were quite familiar to her. Dainty and delicate things had been every day matters in her father's house. Different days she had seen, oh, very different. Yet this young girl, so suddenly stranded on what looked like a rough shore, was already beginning to question whether, after all, these were not her better days. Had she ever before leaned her heart on Christ as she was learning now to do? Busy in his cause she had always been, eagerly busy, ever since she could remember. But she began to have a dim feeling that it was one thing to be busy in his cause, and quite another to walk with him, saying as a child what next, and taking up the next with a happy unquestioning as to the right of it. Something of this new experience was beginning to steal over her. There seemed to be less of Claire Benedict than ever before, but there was in her place one who was growing willing to be led, and Claire already felt that she would not be willing to take back the old Claire Benedict. She was growing attached to this new one. Before that day closed the Ansteads had a revelation. It was Alice, the young lady daughter of the house, who had come up to show Mrs. Foster the way, and who lingered and chatted with the cheerful young prisoner after Mrs. Foster had taken her departure. She stooped for Claire's handkerchief, which had dropped, and said, as her eye fell on the name, I know of a young lady who has your full name. That is singular, is it not? The name is not a common one. Who is she? asked Claire, interested. Is she nice? While I immediately claim relationship, I am not in the least acquainted with her, though I fancy from what I have heard that she may be very nice. She was pointed out to me once at a concert in Boston by a gentleman who had some acquaintance with her. She is the daughter of Sidney L. Benedict, a millionaire. I suppose you do not know of her, though she is a namesake. I heard more about her father perhaps than I did of her. For so many people seemed to admire him as a wonderful man, very benevolent you know, and sort of hopelessly good he seemed to me. I remember telling my brother Lewis that it must be rather oppressive to have such a reputation for goodness to sustain. Were you ever in Boston? The music teacher was so long in answering that Miss Alice turned toward her questioningly, and found that the eyes, but a moment before so bright, were brimming with tears. I beg your pardon, she said sympathetically. Does your ankle pain you so badly? Something ought to be done for it. I will call Mama. But Claire's hand detained her. It is not that, she said gently and smiled. I forgot my ankle and where I was and everything. He was a good man, Miss Anstead, good and true to the heart's core, and his goodness was not oppressive, it was his joy. He has gone now to wear his crown, and I am proud to be his daughter, Claire. But, oh, there are times when the longing to see him rolls over me, so that it swallows every other thought. And then the poor little teacher buried her head in the lace- trimmed pillows and cried outright. Mama, what do you think? Lewis, can you believe it possible? She is one of the Boston Benedicts, a daughter of that Sidney L, about whom we heard so much when we were with the Maitlands. I heard he had gone to smash, said Lewis, when the first astonishment was over. But I thought he had done it fashionably and provided handsomely for his family. CHAPTER X I do not suppose people realize how much such things influence them. For instance, Alice Anstead was the sort of girl who would have been ashamed of herself had she realized how much more important a person Claire Benedict was to her as soon as it became known that she belonged to the Boston Benedicts. But the fact was very apparent to others if not to Alice. She had been very glad before this to have Miss Benedict enjoy the comforts of the house, but now she hovered about her and gave her crumbs of personal attention and found a fascination in hearing her talk, and, in short, was interested in her to a degree that she could never have been simply in the poor music teacher. She brought her work one morning and sat by the luxurious chair where Claire had been imprisoned, with her injured foot skillfully arranged on a hassack. How pretty it is, Claire said, watching the crimson silk flowers grow on the canvas under skillful fingers. Do you enjoy working on it? The tone of voice which answered her was dissatisfied in the extreme. Oh, I suppose so, as well as I enjoy anything that there is to do. One must employ oneself in some way, and we live such a humdrum life here that there is chance for very little variety. I am puzzled to know how you manage it, Miss Benedict. You have been accustomed to such different surroundings. This is a sharp enough contrast to Chester. Have you been in Chester yet, Miss Benedict? Well, it is just a nice little city, hardly large enough to be called a city. The society is good, and there is always something going on, and when I come out here, I am at an utter loss what to do with myself. But then Chester is very far from being Boston, and if I had had the advantages of Boston all my life as you have, I feel sure I could not endure a month of South Plains. It is bad enough for me. How do you bear it? Claire could only smile in answer to this. There were circumstances connected with her removal from Boston which were too keenly felt to touch with a careless hand. She hastened to ask questions. What is there pleasant in Chester? I have promised myself to go there some Saturday and see what I can find in the library. Oh, there is a very fair library there, I believe, for a town of its size, but I never patronize it. We have books enough. By the way, Miss Benedict, you are welcome to the use of our library. Papa will be glad to have someone enjoying the books. The girls have as much as they can endure of books in school, and Louis is not literary in his tastes. I am almost the only reader. Mama is so busy with various city benevolences that, what with her housekeeping and social cares, she rarely has time for much reading. Oh, Chester is well enough. There are concerts, you know, and lectures, or entertainments of some sort. One can keep busy there if one accepts invitations. But to tell you the truth, the whole thing often bores me beyond endurance. And I am glad to get out here to be away from it all. I don't like my life. I think I have talents for something better if one could only find what it is, the something better I mean. There was a pretty flush on her discontented face as she looked up eagerly to see how this confidence was being received. Claire's face was gently sympathetic and grave. Alice took courage. Mama laughs at me and says I am visionary and that I want to have a career and that I must be content to fill my sphere in life as my ancestors have done before me. But really, I am not content. I don't like the sort of life spread out before me for generations back, marrying, you know, and keeping up a handsome house and receiving and paying visits and giving a grand party once a year when you are sure to offend somebody to whom you are indebted in some way and whom you forgot. Now, do you see any particular enjoyment in that sort of thing? No, said Claire, unhesitatingly. I do not. I'm real glad to hear you say so. Mama thinks it is dreadful to be discontented with one's lot, but I am. I would like a career of some sort, anything that would absorb me and yet I don't want to be poor. I should shrink from that. Do you really find it easier to get along with life now that you have not time to think as you used? Another question to be gently put aside. What did this girl know of the charmed life which she had lived at home and of the father who had been at center? She could not go into the depths of her heart and drag out its memories unless there were a very grave reason for so doing. I have always lived a very busy life, she answered evasively, but before I can help you with any of my experiences, I must ask one question. Are you not a Christian, Miss Anstead? Apparently it was an amazing question to the young girl. Her cheeks took a deeper flush. She let her canvas half drop from her hand and fixed inquiring eyes on her questioner. Why, yes, that is, I suppose I am or hope I am or something. I am a member of the church if that is what you mean. It is not in the least what I mean. That is only the outward sign, worthless if it is not indeed a sign of union with Christ. Such a union as furnishes a career, Miss Anstead, which alone is worthy of you. Such a union as carries you captive, making your time and your money and your talents not your own but his. There is nothing dissatisfying about such a life, my friend. It almost lifts one above the accident of outward surroundings. There was an undoubted amazement expressed on Miss Anstead's face now. I don't in the least understand you, she said. What has my being a member of the church to do with all this time which lies on my hands just now, I should like to know. If you mean mission bands and benevolent societies and all that sort of thing, my tastes don't lie in that direction in the least. Mama does enough of that for the entire family. She always has some pokey board meeting to attend. I have sat shivering in the carriage and waited for her last words so many times that I am utterly sick of the whole thing. Oh, I am a member of course and give money. That is all they want. But you are mistaken in supposing that these things help me in the least. I don't think so, Claire said, unable to help smiling over the darkness which had so misunderstood and misinterpreted Christian work and yet feeling that it called for tears rather than smiles. These things are only more of the outward signs. They were interrupted then and Claire was not sorry. She wanted to think over her ground. There was no use in casting these pearls of truth before Alice Anstead. She was too utterly in the dark to see them. A young lady she was well educated in the common acceptation of that term accomplished so far as music and French were concerned skillful as regards embroidery and worsted work, but evidently the various child as regarded the Christian life, though she had been a member of the visible church for years. If she were to be helped at all, Claire must come down from the heights where she walked and meet her on some common ground. I wonder how the old church would do, she asked herself. I wish I could get her interested in it both for her sake and for the sake of the church. Had she heard the report given below of this brief conversation, she might have been discouraged for she was but a young worker after all and had not met with many rebuffs. Mama, she is a regular little fanatic. So Alice affirmed, you ought to have heard her talk to me. It sounded just like quotations from that old book of sermons that grandma used to pour over. I didn't know what she meant. Probably she did not either, was the comment of this Christian mother. Some very young people occasionally fall into that style talking heroics using theological terms of which they cannot grasp the meaning and fancy it a higher type of religion. She will probably know both less and more as she grows older. Then was Miss Benedict's pupil Ella emboldened to come to the rescue of her teacher's reputation. But mama, she is not so very young. I saw her birthday book and the date made her 20 in September. Indeed, said Mrs. Anstead with a mused smile, that is quite a patriarchal age. She certainly ought to be well posted in all theological dogmas by this time. My dear, it is one of the worst ages for a young woman if she isn't absorbed with an engagement by that time to fancy herself superior. Oh mama, you don't know Miss Benedict. She doesn't fancy herself superior to anybody. She is just as sweet and lovely as she can be. All the girls like her and I think she has the nicest religion of anybody I know. This outburst was from Fanny. Very well, dear, answered the mother complacently, admire her as much as you like. She is quite as safe a shrine as any for a young girl like you to worship at. You must always have someone. I am glad the girls like her poor thing. Her life must be doleful enough at best. It is certainly a great change. And the benevolent mother's side in sympathy. She was glad to be able to put what she thought was a little sunshine from her elegant home into the poor music teacher's lot. She even wondered as she waited for her carriage to drive downtown whether the sprained ankle were not a providential arrangement to enable her to give a few days of rest and luxury to this unfortunate girl. This thought she kept quite to herself. She did not quite accept such strained and peculiar views of Providence. It savored a little of fanaticism, a thing which she disapproved and Mr. Anstead disliked. But then some people thought such things and it was barely possible that they were sometimes correct. She went out to her carriage still thinking these thoughts and Claire watching her from the upper window said to herself, I wonder if I can help her. I wonder if God means me to. Of course I am set down here for something. She had no doubt at all about the Providence in it. The son of the house had added one sentence to the family discussion. You might have known that she would be a fanatic after you found that she was Sydney Benedict's daughter. He was the wildest kind of a visionary. Porter was talking about him today. He knew them in Boston. He says Benedict gave away enough every year to support his family in splendid style. They are reaping the results of his extravagance. This is only one of the many different ways which there are of looking at things. Nevertheless, the fair fanatic seemed to be an attractive object to the entire family. Lewis, not hitherto particularly fond of evenings at home, found himself lingering in the upstairs library whether he had himself wheeled the large chair with the patient seated therein. As the days passed, she persisted in making herself useful and Ella and Fanny under her daily tuition were making very marked progress in music as well as in some other things that their mother did not understand about so well. It was on one of these cozy evenings that Lewis occupied the piano stool. He and Alice having been performing snatches of favorite duets until Alice was summoned to the parlors. Come down, won't you, Lewis? That is a good boy. It is the Powell girls and Dick will be with them, I presume. This had been Alice's petition just as she was leaving the room. But Lewis had elevated both eyebrows and shoulders. The Powell girls, he repeated, not if this individual knows himself. I never inflict myself on the Powell girls if there is any possibility of avoiding it. And as for Dick, I would go a square out of my way any time to save boring him. Excuse me, please, Alice, I am not at home or I am at home and indisposed, just as you please. The latter has the merit of truth. It is my duty to stay here and entertain Miss Benedict since the girls have deserted her. I have no doubt that you would excuse me with pleasure, but nevertheless I consider it my duty to stay. This last was merrily added just as Alice was closing the door. Claire did not wait to reply to the banter, but plunged it once into the center of the thought which had been growing on her for several days. Mr. Anstead, do you know I wish I could enlist both you and your sisters as helpers in the renovation of the old church downtown? What, the old brick rookery on the corner? My dear young lady, your faith is sublime and your knowledge of this precious village limited. That concern was past renovating some years before the flood. It was about that time or a little later that my respected grandfather tried to remodel the seats and raised such a storm of indignation about his ears that it took a century to calm the people down. So tradition says, whatever you undertake to do will be a failure. I feel it my duty to inform you of so much. And now I am burning with a desire to ask a rude question. Why do you care to do anything with it? Why does it interest you in the least? I beg your pardon if I am meddling with what does not concern me, but I was amused over the affair when the girls came home and petitioned to join the charmed circle. Why a lady who was here but for a passing season or so should interest herself in the old horror was beyond my comprehension. Is it strictly benevolence, may I ask? I don't think it is benevolence at all. It is a plain faced duty. Duty? The heavy eyebrows were raised again. I don't comprehend you. Why should a stranger to this miserable, little, squeezed up village and one who by all the laws of association and affinity will surely not spend much of her time here? Have any duties connected with that old box which the church fathers have allowed to run into desolation and disgrace for so many years that the present generation accepts it as a matter of course? Will you allow me to ask you one question, Mr. Anstead? Are you a Christian? End of Chapter 11, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 12 of Interrupted by Pansy. This Librabox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 12, Logic and Labor. The young man thus addressed gave over fingering the piano keys as he had been softly doing from time to time, world about on the music stool and indulged in a prolonged and curious stare at his questioner. I beg your pardon, he said at last with a little laugh as he recognized the rudeness of the proceeding. I am struck dumb, I think. In all my previous extended experience, no more astonishing query has ever been put to me. I don't know how to take it. Won't you simply answer it? Why, it is too astonishing to me that the thing requires an answer. I don't believe I even know what it is to be the sort of character to which you refer. Then am I to understand that you don't know but you may be one? The young man laughed again, a slightly embarrassed laugh and gave his visitor a swift penetrating glance as if he would like to know whether she was playing a part. Then finding that she waited, he said, oh, not at all. In fact, I may say I am very certain that I don't belong to the class in question, even in name. May I ask you why? Why, he repeated the word. There was something very bewildering and embarrassing about these short, direct, simply put questions. He had never heard them before. Really, that is harder to answer than the first. What is it to be a Christian, Miss Benedict? It is to love the Lord Jesus Christ with a love that places his honor and his cause and his commands first and all else secondary. Who does it? He knows, perhaps there are many. Why are not you one? He dropped his eyes now but answered lightly. Hard to tell. I have never given the matter sufficiently serious thought to be able to witness in the case. But is that reply worthy of a reasoning being? Won't you be frank about the matter, Mr. Anstead? I don't mean to preach and I did not intend to be offensively personal. I was thinking this afternoon how strange it was that so many well-educated reasoning young men leave this subject outside and were apparently indifferent to it, though they professed to believe in the story of the Bible. And I wondered why it was. What process of reasoning brought them to such a position? Will you tell me about it? How do young men who are intelligent, who accept the Bible as a standard of morals by which the world ought to be governed, who respect the church and think it ought to be supported, reason about their individual positions as outsiders? They do not stand outside of political questions where they have a settled opinion. Why do they in this? I don't know, he answered at last. The majority of them perhaps never give it a thought. With others, the claims which the church makes are too squarely in contact with pre-arranged plans of life and none of them more than half believe in religion as exhibited in the everyday lives about them. Have you given me your reason for being outside, Mr. Anstead? Why yes, I suppose so. That is, so far as I can be said to have a reason. I don't reason about these matters. Will you tell me which one of the three reasons you gave is yours? Were you educated for the bar, Miss Benedict? Since you press me, I must say that a mixture of all three might be found revolving about my inner consciousness. I rarely trouble myself with the subject. That is foolish, I suppose, but it is really no more foolish than I am about many things. Then so far as I may be said to have plans, what little I know of the Bible is dreadfully opposed to the most of them. And well, I don't more than one third believe in any of the professions which are being lived about me. But you believe in the Bible? Oh, I believe it is a fine old book which has some grand reading in it and some that is very dull and I know as little about it as the majority of men and women. Oh, then let me put the question a little differently. Do you believe in Jesus Christ? Believe in him. Yes, as one who once lived in person on this earth and died on a cross and went back to heaven and is to come again at some future time. Oh yes, I have no particular reason for doubting prophecy or history on those points. I'm rather inclined to think the whole story is true. Do you think his character worthy of admiration? Oh yes, of course, it is a remarkable character. Even infidels concede that, you know, and I am no infidel. Bob Ingersoll and his follies have no charm for me. I have had that disease, Miss Benedict, like the measles and whooping cough. It belongs to a certain period of life, you know, and I am past that. I had it in a very mild form, however, and it left no trace. The fellow's logic has nothing to stand on. She ignored the entire sentence, saved the first two words. She had not the slightest desire to talk about Bob Ingersoll, or to let this gay young man explain some of Bob's weak mistakes and laugh with her over his want of historic knowledge. She went straight to the center of the subject. Then Mr. Anstead, won't you join his army and come over and help us? Nothing had ever struck the brilliant young man as being more embarrassing than this simple question with a pair of earnest eyes waiting for his answer. It would not do to be merrily stupid and pretend to misunderstand her question as he at first meditated and ask her whether she really wanted him to join Ingersoll's army. Her grave eyes were fixed on his face too searchingly for that. There was nothing for it, but to flip behind one of his flimsy reasons. Really, Miss Benedict, there are really enough recruits of the sort that I should make. When I find a Christian man whom I can admire with all my heart, instead of seeing things in him every day, that even I, with my limited knowledge, know to be contrary to his orders, I may perhaps give the matter consideration, but in my opinion, the army is too large now. But you told me you admired Jesus Christ. I do not ask you to be like any other person to act in any sense like any other person whom you ever saw or of whom you ever heard. Will you copy him, Mr. Anstead? There was no help for it. There must be a direct answer. She was waiting. I do not suppose I will. This was his reply, but the air of gaiety with which he had been speaking was gone. You might have imagined that he was ashamed of the words. Won't you please tell me why? Was there ever a man under such a direct fire of personal questions hard to answer? Banter would not do. There was something in the face and voice of the questioner, which made him feel that it would be a personal insult to reply other than seriously. There are insurmountable difficulties in the way. He said at last, speaking in a low grave tone. Difficulty's too hard for God to surmount. You cannot mean that. But he did not explain what he meant, and at that moment he received a peremptory summons from his mother to the parlor. He arose at once, glad apparently of the interruption, but did not attempt to return to the free and easy tone with which he had carried on part of the conversation, but bade her a grave and respectful good night. Left alone, poor Claire could only sigh in a disappointed way. As usual, she had not said the words she meant to say, and she could but feel that she had accomplished nothing. It had been her father's motto to spend no time alone with a human being without learning whether he belonged to the army. And if not, making an effort to secure his enlistment. Claire, looking on, had known more than one young man and middle-aged man and not a few children who had reported in after days that a word from her father had been their starting point. Sadly, she mourned oftentimes because she had not her father's tact and judgment. It had seemed to her that this young man with his handsome face and his handsome fortune ought to be one for Christ. Why did not his mother win him or his sister? Why did not she? She could but try, so she tried and apparently had failed. And she was still so young a worker that she sighed and felt discouraged instead of being willing to drop the seed and leave the results with God. She belonged to that great company of seed sowers who were very anxious to see the mysterious processes that go on underground, with which they have nothing whatever to do. The next day, Claire went back to the academy. Her twisted ankle was still to be petted and nursed and the piano had to move from the music room to a vacant one next to Claire's own. And the chapel and dining room did without her for a while. But the work of the day was resumed and went steadily forward. It was not without Ernest's protest that she left the home which had opened so royally to receive her. And it is safe to say that every member of the family missed her, none more than Alice, who had found a relief in her conversations from the ennui and unrest which possessed her. Louis, too, had added his entreaties that the burdens of life at the academy should not be assumed so soon and evidently missed something from the home after her departure. It was when he was helping her to the sleigh that he said, you did not answer my question about the old church and your interest in it. May I call some evening and get my answer? We shall be glad to see you at the academy. She had replied cordially, but I can answer your question now. It is because it is the Church of Christ and it is my duty to do for it in any way all that I can. But, he said puzzled, how is it that the church fathers and for that matter the church mothers have let it go into such a wretched state of repair? They haven't a duty concerning it rather than a stranger in their midst? I did not say that they had not, but they don't have to report to me the head of the church will see to that. Then Dennis, the academy man of all work, had taken the reins while Louis was in the act of tucking the robes more carefully about her and driven rapidly away. It is queer how things work, Ruth Jennings said, as a party of the girls gathered around their teacher to report progress. There are a dozen things that have had to lie idle waiting for you. Why do you suppose we had to be interrupted in our plans and almost stand still and do nothing while you lay on a couch with a sprained ankle? I'm sure we were doing nice things and right things and we needed you and it could do no possible good to anybody for you to lie and suffer up there for a week. I do say it looks sometimes as if things just happened in this world or else were managed by somebody who hated the world and every good plan that was made for it. Don't you really think that Satan has a good deal of control, Miss Benedict? But there were reasons why Miss Benedict thought it would be as well not to let her pupil wander off just then in a misty sea of questionings. As for herself, she had no doubt that the interruption was for some good end. It is true she could not see the end, but she trusted it. You are to remember that she had had her sharper lessons beside which all this was the merest child's play. Those girls could not possibly know how that awful why had tortured her through days and nights until that memorable Sunday night when God gave her victory. What interruptions had come to her? Father and fortune and home and life work cut off in a moment. The whole current of her life changed, changed in ways that would not do even to hint to the girls. What was a sprained ankle and a few days of inaction compared with these? Yet their evident chafing over the loss of time opened her eyes to a new truth. It seemed such a trivial thing to her that she could scarce restrain her lips from a smile over their folly and dwelling on it until suddenly they're dashed over her the thought. What if, in the light of heaven, my interruptions all seem as small as this? The interrupted work was now taken up with renewed energy and indeed blossomed at once into new varieties. What we must do next is to give a concert. This was the spark that the music teacher threw into the midst of the group of girls who occupied various attitudes about her chair. It was evening and they were gathered in her room for a chat as to ways and means. Several days had passed and the foot was so far recovered that its owner promised it a walk down the church aisle on the following Sabbath provided Dennis could arrange to have it taken to the door. It still, however, occupied a place of honor among the cushions and Claire sat back in the depths of a great comfortable rocker that had been brought up from the parlor for her use. A concert, repeated Ruth, great dismay in her voice. Us? Yes, us. Who would come? This from Nettie. Everybody will come after we are ready if we have managed our part of the work well and put our tickets low enough and exerted ourselves to sell them. Oh, I don't mean play. I mean work. We would make ready for a first-class entertainment. Let me see. Are you not all my music pupils? Yes, every one of you, either vocal or piano pupils. What is more natural than to suppose that Miss Claire Benedict assisted by her able and deficient class of pupils can give an entertainment in the audience room of the church, et cetera. Isn't that the way the advertisements had? For the benefit of the church? But to this suggestion, Miss Benedict promptly shook her head. No, for the benefit of ourselves. End of Chapter 12, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 13 of Interrupted by Pansy. This LibriBox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 13, Innovations. I dislike that way of doing things. People are being educated to suppose that they are engaged in a benevolent enterprise when they attend a benefit concert or entertainment. Those who cannot afford to go ease their consciences by saying, oh, well, it is for benevolence when it really isn't, you know. It is for self-gratification or self-improvement and people who ought to give $25 for a thing learn to tell themselves that they went to the 25-cent supper or concert and that is their share, they suppose. Let us invite them to come to our concert because we believe that we can entertain them and that it will pay them to be present. The fact is, girls, the Church of Christ doesn't need any benefit. We degrade it by talking as though it did. No, we will divide the proceeds of the concert in shares among ourselves. That is, we, the workers, will for the time being go into business and earn money that shall be ours. We will not plead poverty or ask people to listen to us because of benevolence. We will simply give them a chance to hear a good thing if they want to and the money shall be ours to do exactly what we please with. Of course, if we please to give every cent of it to the Church, that is our individual affair. New ground this for those girls. They had never before heard the like, but there was an instant outgrowth of self-respect because of it. Then we can't coax people to buy tickets, said Nettie. I'm so glad. Of course not. The very utmost that propriety will allow us to do will be to exhibit our goods for sale, so much for such an equivalent, and allow people the privilege of choosing what they will do and where they will go. The girls, each and all, agreed that from that standpoint they would as soon offer tickets for sale as not, and instantly they stepped upon that new platform and argued from it in the future to the great amazement and somewhat to the bewilderment of some of their elders. Thereafter, rehearsals for the concert became the daily order of things. Not much time to spend each day, for nothing could be done until lessons were over and all regular duties honorably discharged. The more need then for promptness and diligence on the part of each helper, and the more glaringly improper it became to delay matters by having to stay behind for a half-prepared lesson. Never had the academy or the village for that matter been so full of eager, throbbing, healthy life as those girls made it. Their numbers grew also. At first the music class was disposed, like the others, to be exclusive and to shake its head with a lofty negative when one and another of the outsiders proposed this or that thing which they would do to help. But Miss Benedict succeeded in tidying them over that shoal. It is their church girls as well as ours. We must not hinder them from showing their love. Great love they have had, sneered one. They never thought of doing a thing until we commenced. But they were all honest these girls and this very one who had offered her sneer added in sober second thought, though to be sure for the matter of that neither had we until you began it. Well, let them come in. I don't care. And we want to do so much, said Miss Benedict with enthusiasm. If I were you, I would take all the help I could get. Meantime the other schemes connected with this gigantic enterprise flourished. There seemed no end to the devices for money making all of them in somewhat new channels too. Not a tidy in the enterprise, said Ruth Jennings gravely as she tried to explain some of the work to her mother. Whoever heard of a church getting itself repaired without the aid of tidies and pin cushions. I wonder when they began with such things, mother. Do you suppose St. Paul had to patronize fairs and buy slippers and things for the benefit of churches in Ephesus or Corinth? The bewildered mother with a vague idea that Ruth was being almost irreverent could not, for all that, decide how to answer her. For there isn't any religion in those things, of course, she said to the equally puzzled father, and it did sound ridiculous to hear St. Paul's name brought into it. That Miss Benedict has all sorts of new ideas. In the course of time, the boys, who were quite likely to become interested in anything that has deeply interested the girls, were drawn into service. Here, too, the ways of working were unusual and suggestive. Miss Benedict heard of one who had promised to give all the cigars he would possibly have smoked in two months' time, whereopon she made this eager comment. Oh, what a pity that it is not going to take us 50 years to repair the church. Then we could get him to promise to give us the savings of cigars until it was done. This was duly reported to him and gave him food for thought. Another promised the savings from sleigh rides that he had intended to take, and another gravely wrote down in Ruth Jennings's notebook, Harry Matthews, $1.10, the price of two neckties and a bottle of hair oil. There was more than fun to some of these entries. Some of the boys could not have kept their pledges if there had not been these queer little sacrifices. One morning there was a new development. Ruth Jennings brought the news. The much-abused, long-suffering, neglectful sexton of the half-alive church notified the startled trustees that he had received a louder call to the church on the other corner and must leave them. It really was startling news. For bad as he had been, not one in the little village could be thought of who would be happy to supply his place. Ruth reported her father as filled with consternation. I wish I were a man, savagely announced Anna Graves. Then I would offer myself for the position at once. It is as easy to make $3 a month in that way as it is in any other that I know of. That was the first development of the new idea. Miss Benedict bestowed a sudden glance, half of amusement, half of pleasure on her aspiring pupil and was silent. If it were not for the fires was Nettie Burdick's slow-spoken sentence, rather as if she were thinking aloud than talking. That is the way the idea began to grow. Then Ruth Jennings with a sudden dash as she was very apt to enter into a subject. It is no harder to make fires in church stoves than it is in sitting room ones. I've done that often. I say, girls, let's do it. Every one of them knew that she meant the church stoves instead of the sitting room ones. And that was the way that the idea took on flesh and stood up before them. There followed much eager discussion and of course some demers. Nothing was ever done yet or ever will be without somebody objecting to it. At least this was what Ruth said. And she added that she could not to save her life, help being a little more settled in a determination after she had heard somebody opposed at a trifle. However, the trustees opposed it more than a trifle. They were amazed. Such an innovation in the time honored ways of South Plains had never been heard of before. Argument ran high. The half doubtful girls came squarely over to the aggressive side and waxed eloquent over the plan. It was carried at last as Miss Benedict, looking on and laughing, told the girls she knew it would be. When you get fairly roused, my girls, I observe that you are quite apt to carry the day. She did not tell them that they were girls after her own heart, but I think perhaps she looked it. One request the trustees growled vigorously over, which was that the new sextants should be paid in advance for a half year's work. What if they failed? We won't fail, said Ruth indignantly. And if we do, can't you conceive of the possibility of our being honest? We will not keep a cent of the precious money that has not been earned. Whereupon Mr. Jennings in a private conference with the trustees went over to the enemy's side and promised to stand security for them, remarking apologetically that the girls had all gone crazy over something, his Ruth among the number. Therefore, $18 were gleefully added to the treasury. The sum was certainly growing. The Sabbath following the installation of the new sextants marked a change in the appearance of the old church. The floors had been carefully swept and cleansed, the young ladies drawing on their precious funds for the purpose of paying a woman who had scrubbed vigorously. It would be more fascinating, Ruth Jennings frankly admitted, to let all the improvements come in together in one grand blaze of glory. But then it would be more decent to have those floors scrubbed. And I move that we go in for decency to the sacrifice of glory if need be. So they did. Not a particle of dust was to be seen on that Sabbath morning anywhere about the sanctuary. From force of habit, the men carefully brushed their hats with their coat sleeves as they took possession of them again, the service over. But the look of surprise on the faces of some over the discovery that there was nothing to brush away was a source of amusement to a few of the watchful girls. Also, the few stragglers who returned for the evening service were caught looking about them in a dazed sort of way, as though they deemed it just possible that there might be an incipient fire in progress that threatened the building. Not that a new lamp had been added, the chimneys had simply been washed in soap suds and polished until they shone. And new wicks had been furnished, the workers declaring that their consciences really would not allow them to do less. The effect of these very commonplace efforts was somewhat astonishing even to them. It is well we did it, affirmed Anna Graves with a serious face. I believe we ought to get the people used to these things by degrees or they will be frightened. One question Claire puzzled over in silence. Did the minister really preach a better sermon that evening? Was it possible that the cleanliness about him might have put a little energy into his discouraged heart or had she been so tired with her week of toil that to see every one of her dozen girls out to church and sit back and look at them through the brightness of clean lamps was restful and satisfying? She found that she could not decide on the minister as yet. Perhaps the carrying of such a load as that church for years was what had taken the spring out of his voice and the life out of his words. About these things nothing must be said, yet could not something be done? How could she and her girls help that pastor? Meantime some of the girls came to her one evening bursting with laughter. Oh Miss Benedict we have a new recruit. You wouldn't guess who. We shall certainly succeed now with such a valuable reinforcement. Oh girls we know now why Miss Benedict sprained her ankle and kept us all waiting for a week. This is a direct result from that week's work. What are you talking about? said Miss Benedict with smiling eyes and sympathetic voice. It was a great addition to her power over these girls that she held herself in readiness always to join their fun at legitimate moments. Sad hearted she often was, but what good that those young things should see it? Who is your recruit? Why, bud, they said, and then there were shouts of laughter again and Ruth could hardly command her voice to explain. He came to me last night, tramped all the way up to our house in the snow after meeting because he said he wasn't so afraid of me as he was of all them others. Was that a compliment girls or an insult? Yes Miss Benedict he wants to help, offers to tend the fires and I shouldn't wonder if he could do it much better than it has been done at least. It was real funny and real pitiful too. He said it was the only live-in thing he knew how to do and that he was sure and certain he could do and if it would help any he would be awful glad to join. But doesn't he want to be paid? screamed one of the girls. Paid? Not he. I tell you he wants to join us. He said he wanted to do it to please her. That means you Miss Benedict you have won his heart in some way. Oh it is the fruit of the sprained ankle. You know girls she said it was surely for some good purpose. Then they all went off into ecstatic laughter again. They were just at that age when it takes so little to convulse girls. But I am not yet enlightened. Explained Claire as soon as there was hope of her being heard. Who is bud? Oh is it possible you don't remember him? That is too cruel when he is just devoted to you. Why he is the furnace boy at the Ansteads. I don't know where he saw you. He muttered something about the furnace and the register that I did not understand. But he plainly intimated that he was ready to be your devoted servant and die for you if need be or at least make the church fires as many days and nights as you should want them. Now the question is what shall we do to the poor fellow? The furnace boy at the Ansteads. Oh yes Claire remembered him. A great blundering apparently half-witted friendless hopeless boy. Claire's heart had gone out in pity for him the first time she ever saw him. He had been sent to her room to make some adjustment of the register screw and she had asked him if he understood furnaces and if he liked to work and if the snow was deep and a few other aimless questions just for the sake of speaking to him with a pleasant voice and seeming to take an interest in his existence. Her father's heart had always overflowed with tenderness and healthfulness for all such boys. Claire had pleased herself or perhaps I might say saddened herself with thinking what her father, if he were alive and should come in contact with Bud would probably try to do for him. She could think of ways in which her father would work to help him but she sadly told herself that all that was passed. Her father was gone where he could not help Bud and there were few men like him and the boy would probably have to stumble along through a cold and lonely world. She had not thought of one thing that she could do for him. Indeed it had not so much as occurred to her as possible that there could be anything. After that first day she had not seen him again until he came to the music room with a message for Ella and she had turned her head and smiled and said good morning and that was really all that she knew about Bud. She had forgotten his existence and she had been sorrowing because her week at the endsteads seemed to have accomplished nothing at all. Her face was averted for a moment from the girls and some of them noticing actually thought that their gay banter was offensive and was what caused the heightened color on her cheeks as she turned back to them. They could not have understood even had she tried to explain that it was a blush of shame over the thought that the one whom possibly she might have won from that home for the master's service she had forgotten and reached out after those whom possibly she was not sent to reach. Her eyes were open now. She would do what she could to repair blunders. Do with him, she said, going back to Ruth's last question, will accept him of course and set him to work. I should not be greatly surprised if he should prove one of the most useful helpers on our list before the winter is over. Look at the snow coming down and we have a rehearsal tonight. Don't you believe he can shovel paths as well as make fires? Sure enough, said those girls and they went away pleased with the addition to the circle of workers and prepared everyone to greet him as a helper. End of chapter 13, recording by Tricia G.